


your beating heart

by clarkeneedsbellamy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:11:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1854211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarkeneedsbellamy/pseuds/clarkeneedsbellamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His grip slackens and his eyes flounder.  He’s hallucinating.  Some idiot slipped jobi nuts into his rations, and they’re scrambling his sight.  That’s the only explanation for how Clarke Griffin could suddenly be standing in front of him, all tangled blonde hair, trembling knees, and muddied white scrubs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your beating heart

 “Quiet.”

It’s the third time Bellamy has heard the crunch of leaves from a pace behind him, and roughly the seventh he’s cursed every single member of the Ark for forcing a hunting partner on him.

But, then, he’s cursed a hell of a lot of people for a hell of a lot of things lately. Every Grounder who had a hand in decimating his camp, to start.  Then there’s Spacewalker, who had to go and get himself killed saving his life when he should have just gotten into the damn dropship.  Himself for not being able to save Finn.  The survivors of the Ark for not being able to help, Clarke for not being there to heal. 

_Clarke and the rest of their people for disappearing off the face of the fucking planet._

Councilman Kane for his orders and commands and insane assumption that he knows a thing about surviving on ground.  Abby Griffin for assuming the same.  Abby Griffin for having just enough of Clarke in her features to turn his hands into fists and his eyes away from her face every time she speaks to him; for grabbing his arm before he left camp that morning and declaring that she couldn’t let him go out alone.

(He was almost tired enough at the time to think her hair had gone several shades lighter and her face two decades younger.  The second passed.  Reality snapped him back into focus, and Bellamy had jerked a nod if only to put several yards of space between them.)

On the list of people he takes issue with, Wick and his loud steps barely rank.

“Yeah,” the engineer’s voice stirs skeptically behind him.  “I’ll ask the leaves to get right on that.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes and hoists a firmer grip on his gun. “Avoid the leaves.”

A mumbled  _how about telling the leaves to avoid me_ finds its way into Wick’s next breath, and a renewed tightness – that has  _nothing_ to do with any reminder of Jasper’s muttered sarcasm – finds its way into Bellamy’s jaw.

Several minutes pass, Wick’s feet quiet slightly, and, still, not even a rabbit crosses their path. 

It doesn’t take long for the Ark survivor’s mouth to open again.  “So, uh, you said that you’d seen people in this forest. With spears.”

Bellamy grunts an affirmative. 

“That they threw at you.”

“They sure as hell weren’t using them for decoration.”

“And you volunteered for this trip.”

Exhaustion grounds his voice down an octave.  “Your point?”

Bellamy doubts Wick meant him to hear him mutter, “That you and Kane should talk about suicidal impulses,” towards the dirt.

A rebuttal about the suicidal effects of starvation is sharp on his tongue when the pounding of footsteps banishes it.

Twigs and leaves crackle like signal flares from a few meters away, wrenching his gun up into position and his finger to its trigger.  Anticipation courses through Bellamy’s limbs as he eases his way towards the approaching sound.

He can’t find his people.  He couldn’t save Finn.  He has no freaking idea how to work with the members of the Ark.

Callused hands steady on his gun, Bellamy’s mouth stretches into as close to a grin as it’s come since the Grounders attacked.

Shooting, he can do.  Gladly.

He’s about to do just that when the source of the footsteps appears – the stumbling, roughly 5’5”, very human-shaped source, who currently has his name on her lips.

“Bellamy?”

His grip slackens and his eyes flounder.  He’s hallucinating.  Some idiot slipped jobi nuts into his rations, and they’re scrambling his sight.  That’s the only explanation for how Clarke Griffin could suddenly be standing in front of him, all tangled blonde hair, trembling knees, and muddied white scrubs.

“ _Bellamy.”_

He shakes his head, half sure she’ll flicker away with the motion.

“Hey.”  Wick’s hand nudges the knotted ridge of his back.  “Is she one of the 100 or should I start worrying about spears?”

A long gulp works down his throat.  “One of mine.”  Even as Bellamy forms the reply, Wick seems to fade behind him, muted and far away. 

He may not be a scientist, but he’s pretty damn sure hallucinations aren’t contagious. 

 “Clarke?”  His voice is too dry and his steps are suddenly too ragged.  It takes the sight of her feet bare, bloodied, and rushing towards him to prod life into his own.  Bellamy moves without a thought for the sound he’s making or for the gun he’s only loosely holding.  He doesn’t stop until there’s less than an inch between them. 

Wide and grey, her eyes fasten on him as though they’ve found a ghost and a miracle all at once.  “Y-you were dead.”

His raised eyebrow is more habit than anything.  “And you were gone, Princess.”

A mangled laugh rasps its way from her lips.  Clarke’s sheered fingernails dive deep into his shoulders, barely beating her forehead in its descent to his neck.  “I thought you were dead,” she murmurs again.  Her mouth keeps forming the words, molding them against the dirt and sweat coating his skin.

Bellamy drops the gun completely.

She’s holding on to him as though he’s a damn parachute, and, hell, maybe it’s only because he’s the first survivor she’s found. Maybe it’s only because she’s convinced herself she’s clutching Spacewalker.  (He doubts it.  Even half-crazed, Clarke would be far too clear-headed for that.)   

Besides, it’s  _his_ name that claims her tongue next. “Bellamy,” she whispers again and again until the end of his name sounds like its beginning.

He tugs her hard against him, tighter than he’s ever held a gun, a conquest, or anyone other then Octavia.  “It’s good to see you too, Clarke.” 

 


End file.
